– B. cooks for his mother and his sister and his niece every Christmas and Easter. (These days, I supply dessert.) Since D. is the only child, and the evening usually runs a bit long, she tends to get a bit cranky towards the end of the day. After dessert (strawberry-rhubarb pie), she flounced off towards the kitchen, and when I got there, she proceeded to tell me all of her troubles. Some centered on her school friends (or lack of friends), some on the bad behavior of her stuffed monkey (apparently, he tells on her and says bad words), but her main complaint was that she is always the smallest and that it’s just not fair.
And oh, do I remember the injustice of being young. Sometimes I am so thankful that I am no longer six (or ten, or fifteen) years old.
– Earlier that afternoon, D. and her mother were building a model airplane from wooden and plastic pre-fab pieces. The box said age 3 and up, which kind of worries me since I took over after a while and for the life of me could not figure it out properly. Ultimately, we got the plane in working order, but were left with a couple extra screws. Conclusion? Going into the humanities was a wise career choice for me.
– Also? I’ve decided that love is … passing a spoon back and forth in order to devour the left-over pie in the train back home together. No matter what we’re eating, B. always lets me have the last bite. If that doesn’t say I love you, I don’t know what does.